A merry wanderer for hundreds of years. That’s my Instagram bio, the official vibe, however, I’m not so merry anymore, just tired. Decades of tattling secrets, leading travellers astray, kissing girls in the dark and switching newborn babes for elflings, have left me as you see me today.
Oh yes, still young and virile—apparently. Still energetic and vital—apparently. But should you step closer and look into my eyes then you may find that the light has dimmed. The spark which inspired, the flame that burned bright, has waned and dulled. I’ve developed a curious paranoia about it; yet, I see the same dullness in your eyes. I’m not rare, not aberrant to you.
Still, I wear sunglasses whenever I leave my apartment, be it at dawn or at dusk. Though these days I rarely leave my home, my haven in the heart of this bustling city. A many-roomed penthouse atop an edifice of fluted columns and stone frippery, with floors of woven timber, and watercolour roses crawling the papered walls up to the gold-dusted chandeliers.
It was not I who furnished these splendid rooms, and not I who discovered the artists before they were known; the framed daubs hanging between the roses now famous themselves. My home has remained the same for over a century, as since the day I was left here alone I’ve not changed one cushion, one vase nor one book.
Drifting amongst the treasures I remember. What began as a jape, a twilight shenanigan, became something Else altogether, so I stayed. And for the first time, I told my story to another, confided that the old tales were true, and I was believed. The merry wanderer stopped wandering, yet eventually, a newness crept in that was unwelcome. As I awaited the wind of change, the flame of devilment and the itch in my feet to call me back to my roguish ways the newness I felt was—fear.
I didn’t wish for the itch and the flame. I didn’t wish to leave. We’d planted a garden on the rooftop for my own forest, a nest of green amongst the stone and brick. In the end, I got my wish, I didn’t leave, but my beloved did. Time marched on, and while our roof trees grew strong and tall, my love became grey and small, until eventually, was no longer.
Time marched on, without a care. I, who had spent aeons in my own company now couldn’t fathom this solitary state. I took myself to the garden in the sky. There I could be alone, and the seasons spun past me, an unnoticed creature sheltered within the verdant grove. I sweltered under the summer sun, shivered in the autumnal gales, and let myself freeze through the winter sleet, seeking numbness and gratefully receiving it.
Spring came. The grey ice melted, and the sun returned, with a kind touch and a gentle admonishment to awaken. The spark did stir. Not the true flame, you understand, just the flicker of inspiration, a lovely inkling of the Else. This inkling often comes about just when one is settled—secret questions arriving disguised as tiny whispers in the wind, wondering what may be out there waiting. My life has been lived in search of the Else, and in the past, night upon night, that is always what I have found.
As I said, all the stories are true. You’ve heard tales of the oldest thing in England, the naughty narrator, the wayward henchman, the vivacious and witty pixie. Some deeds may have been dark indeed, but more often were meant in jest. The banging on the roof that awoke you, the hens that wouldn’t lay, the servants tipped from their beds, the horse that threw a shoe—all harmless. Changing my shape, causing love to spark where it should not, leading travellers into the bog or off a cliff—perhaps some harm. Yes, of course, I made amends, but maybe it was all too little, too late.
Now here I sit, in my splendid home, and after many decades alone, I find the spark ignites true and bold, in pursuit of the Else. It’s curious how I feel reluctance to leave this place of belonging, the first of its kind. So the whispers in my ear and the itch in my feet don’t yet summon me back to my capricious capers, being just a mere tickle and a breeze—thus easily ignored.
This is how I have come to be on Instagram, and what they are now calling the X. I’ve started to see the world again without leaving my garden and have made some new friends. I take pictures of myself with sunglasses on, my bright smile belying the dullness that lies behind the dark lenses. My new friends approve of these pictures with hearts, and I in turn approve of theirs.
The seeds of chaos are sown deep within me, and I long to post comments and send messages that would cause a fluster or better still—a disruption. You know the kind, small upsets such as dismay and self-loathing, right through to causing unsuitable people to fall in love.
Thus, I have banned myself from posting comments or messaging any person directly. When the longing becomes too intense I plant seeds in the garden, I pace the timber floors, I drink the dusty wine, I punch the velvet cushions. Day after day I’m less tired, yet more alive and more curious…until one morning, it all returns. The whispers have turned into shouts. It’s the spark. The flame. The itch. The desire for Else.
The merry wanderer becomes a hashtag. Maps are saved, and addresses are pinned. The new friends are about to get a midnight visitor, and whether they will get a kiss or a pinch is up to the fates. My nights of making amends through fine needlework or butter churning are gone, soon to be replaced with unloading the dishwasher or replacing a toilet roll. Such fun awaits.
They will call me a sprite, an imp, a mischievous fairy, a hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow. You can just call me Puck.